Kim Il-Stalker

Guest-Blogger-Who-Never-Blogs-Anymore, Starbuck, and I went to a charity event last week at a local tavern – Casino Night. $20 bought chips and play on several gaming tables. GBWNBA is the family craps-maven and we took our places next to her at the table.

It can get macabre, really, when GBWNBA and I go out. Our frustrated inner profilers lunge to the surface and we begin to identify certain “types”.

“Dahmer, two-o-clock,” I spy. GBWNBA was on the fence with the make, but entertained a gentleman five players down at the craps table.

“There’s your Gacy,” says GBWNBA. “Looks friendly enough. Probably has a clown suit in the trunk.”

I contend that being aware of one’s surroundings lessens the potential one will become a victim. My daughter claims I have created in her a helpless paranoiac destined for agoraphobia.

All in good fun.

Meet up Group Familiars along with Local Tavern Regulars were in attendance at the annual casino event. Jack Daniels, our miscreant from the Great Bonfire Event of two months ago was in attendance. His antics had reached a level of infamy and GBWNBA thought it might be amusing to take off her wedding ring to see if he would attempt to pour his smooth and sultry brand of intoxication into her shot glass, in a manner of speaking. She was wanting to teach him a lesson.

She got attention all right. But not from Jack Daniels.

Enter Kim Il-Stalker, Asian-American, good looking, with a blackberry surgically attached to his palm. His radar pinged on GBWNBA like a tween iming her best friend about vampire heartthrob Edward Cullen.

Il-Stalker slid in next to GBWNBA, asked how to initiate play, thinking he could drop a $20 bill on the craps table. I imagine that he also goes into a grocery store and thumps melons that aren’t ripe. She explained that he’d need to get chips, outlined the rules very succinctly and then focused on Starbuck and I since we were newbies to the table.

It was plain that Kim Il-Stalker was smitten. He sort of puppy dogged her around the bar, blackberry still attached, sat behind her as she played black jack, expressed dismay when she said she wasn’t going to be at the Meet Up Christmas shindig Saturday night. He went so far as to try to talk her into it.

GBWNBA tired early, said her goodbyes to Starbuck and I and started to make her way to her car.

“Can I have your phone number or email or something?”

Taken unawares, GBWNBA spun around. Thinking it would be easier to placate than reject, she naively gave him her email address. I say naively because her email address has the full spelling of her last name and her place of employment. Some pointed googling would further expose her.

He emailed her the next day, extending an invitation to get to know her better. She emailed him back, politely declining the invitation.

Saturday evening; Christmas party. Helpful advice was given to Starbuck on Kim Il Stalker’s status as something of a libertine. Apparently, KIS is a player, pursues women relentlessly, uses his blackberry to collect pictures of his targets.

Starbuck sees Kim Il Stalker come in.

“Hey, is your friend coming?” he casually asks.

“Sister. I’m her sister and nd forget it, she’s married.”

“Married?! She didn’t tell me she was married. She emailed me.”

“She responded to your email. She was being nice. She’s not interested.”

KIS’s disappointment lasted as long as it took him to find another chick willing to engage in some heavy petting in the basement. Both resurfaced an hour later, sloe eyed and hickeyed up.

KIS wasn’t done. As I sat across from him, he engaged a drunken festivity participant in his diatribe of betrayal, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“See? This is the girl I met Thursday night,” sporting a picture of my cousin on his cell phone, “She didn’t tell me she was married.”

I understood that this was directed at me, but I wasn’t sure what point he was trying to make. What, she betray you, Romeo? She aware that you were capturing her digital image on your cell phone, Pig? She give permission for that?

“That’s f****** up man.” Slurry boy slurred, “s’fuuuuuuu******* up.”

GBWNBA called me the next day, some concern in her voice. “I’m two steps away from coming home and finding a rabbit boiling over on my stove reading a note, I’M NOT GONNA BE IGNORED!”

We joked a little, analyzed the thing, considered options. The best option was to ignore him and figure he’d go away to chase a less-married, more needy skirt.

Except he found her on Facebook and sent her a message. “Your sister told me you were married. She told me to forget it. SHE SAID FORGET IT!”

If he writes on her wall to “…bring over the dog, I’m a great cook,” she might be another step closer to the bunny.